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Song of Olëg the Far-Seeing
Olëg, the Far-seeing, is now on his way To punish the insolent Horde; Their hamlets and fields for the truculent fray Condemned to the fire and the sword. At the head of his troops, on his charger so true, Towards the battlefield riding, the Prince nearer drew. When forth from the forest to meet him there strode One skilled in the mystical lore — A Wizard, who in the gods' service abode, And coming events knew before. In prayers and divlnings his life he had spent: Right up to the old Sage the Prince riding went. "Come, tell me, O Wizard, beloved of the god, In life what will happen to me? Shall I quickly be covered beneath the cold sod, To my neighbouring enemies' glee? Reveal the whole truth, and fear nothing from me! — As reward, take the steed that is pleasing to thee!" "No fear have we Wizards of mightiest kings! No need of a Princely reward! Truth-telling, unfettered, our prophet-voice rings, For the will of the gods we regard. The years that are coming lie hidden in gloom, But on thy bright brow I can read thee thy doom! "Now attend to my word! On thee, warrior bold. Will honour and happiness wait; For victory famous thy tale will be told, Thy shield on Byzantium's gate. And the waves and the lands will be subject to thee — Thy foes thy fate wondrous with envy will see. "The treacherous roll of the dark-seething main In the hour of its deadliest storm — The sling, and the dart, and the dagger in vain To thee, Victor, will strive to work harm. Neath thy armour of bronze no wound wilt thou know; A Guardian unseen is assigned thee below. "Thy War-horse no danger, no toil, ever fears — He knows his Lord's will without rein — Now quickly pursuing where rattle the spears, Now scouring across the red plain; And to cold and to carnage he pays little heed, Yet thy death thou art fated to meet from thy steed." A laugh laughed Olëg; yet his forehead with thought And his countenance darkened with care; In silence his hand to the pommel he brought, And leaped from his steed then and there. The neck of his friend with caressing good-bye He smoothed and he patted — then spoke with a sigh: "Farewell, dearest comrade, my servant so true, For the hour for our parting has come; Henceforth take your rest, for no rider on you In the stirrup will place his foot home. Farewell, and be happy, and think upon me! Ho, varlets! come hither, and take my horse, ye! "With coverlets clothe him of daintiest wool. To the meadows fair lead him away. And groom him; with choicest of corn feed him full ; Let him drink where the brook's waters play." The squireens, forthwith, led the War-horse away, And brought to their Chieftain a fresh steed that day. ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗ Olëg, the Far-seeing, is feasting with friends, And the rattle of glasses goes round; Their locks are now white like the snow when it blends With the grass on the warrior's mound. They tell of the dangers of days that are o'er, And of battles they fought in the good time of yore. "And where's my old comrade?" the Emperor cried. "Say, where is my mettlesome steed? Is he well, my good War-horse?" — like storm in his pride, So true and so peerless in speed!" He heareth the answer: "On riverside steep The sleep that's ne'er broken long since doth he sleep." Olëg, then, the Mighty, his head raised on high, "And what's in divining?" he thought. "False wizard, avaunt! for thy tale was a lie. Had I thy word scorned, as I ought, My steed might have borne me alive to this day;" And he bade them point out where the dead charger lay. Then forth from his Court rode Olëg with his friends, With him George and full many a guest; They see on the hill, where the river's bank bends, The place where the charger's bones rest. The rains on them beat, o'er them dust rises high, And ripples the sand when the storm passes by. The Chieftain paced up to the skull of his steed, And murmured: "My best friend, sleep on! Thy master outlives thee — Thus Heaven decreed — Ere my funeral feast thou art gone! Thou never wilt redden the green of my grave, Nor with thy warm life-blood my cold ashes lave. "Lo! this is the place where my ruin lay hid. Once this bone threatened death to me! this!" But, e'en as he spoke, from the dead skull there slid A Snake with a venomous hiss. Round his feet like a black band it suddenly wound, And the stricken Prince fell with a groan to the ground. At the funeral feast of Olëg, the bemoaned, The loving cups bubble with foam; Princes Olga and George on the mound are enthroned, Their troopers along the bank roam. And they tell of the dangers of days that are o'er, And of fights that they fought in the good times of yore. ---- Credited to Alexander Pushkin. Translated by J. Pollen. Copied from archive.org Category:Historical Archive/PD Category:Poetry